


Feelings

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: Platonic Valentine gifts 2017 [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 18:19:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9778709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: It's Valentine's day, and Porthos is on his own. Or, is he?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MDJensen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MDJensen/gifts).



> Sad feelings. But then get happier. 
> 
> For MD Jensen, who comments beautifully and who has influenced my musketeers modernity a LOT. So I owe you :)

“I want to be cute. I want to dress up nice, and go to dinner, and be treated. I want candles and for someone to call me beautiful, and to be given chocolates. Maybe fed strawberries dipped in chocolate. All that outrageous, luxurious, ridiculousness.”

Porthos stops typing, then sighs and presses send without going into the reasons he feels so horrible about actually doing that. He’s talking to his boyfriend, not his therapist. And he doesn't want to go on about being fat, it feels pathetic. He wants to talk about how nice he looks. He sniffs the tears threatening back and rests his head on his arm, typing one fingered, picking out the letters carelessly.

“I want you. Here.”

He sends that, then shuts the laptop and goes to curl up in front of the TV and puts on Big Hero Six so he can cry over that instead of how pathetic he is. Aramis gets home when he’s got through most of a box of tissues and two litres of ice cream. He gives Porthos a long look, then snorts and goes to make himself dinner, singing cheerfully and loudly. And out of tune. Annoying Porthos into cheerfulness, is the theory. It never works. Porthos trundles after him into the kitchen and stands, tissue box in hand, wiping his nose. Aramis laughs and leans against the counter, holding out his arms. Porthos buries himself in close and cries into Aramis’s shoulder instead of his tissues.

“That was one sad movie, huh?” Aramis says, laughing again, thumping Porthos on the back. “Why do you do this to yourself every year? Valentines is a stupid commercial thing.”

“You wrote a sermon about the saint,” Porthos protests.

“True. About the saint. In order to talk about love and acceptance and opening our hearts to things. To talk about refugees, not valentines day, numpty,” Aramis says. “I’m appropriate commercialism.”

“Fuck off. Stop sounding so smug. You have three people in your congregation,” Porthos says.

“Stop being mean.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

“Because valentines means nothing.”

“It means straight people mile stones and growing up and being skinny and attractive and getting to be in love and all those things. I’m fat and ace and queer and just never going to, to, to,” Porthos trails off to cry some more.

“Sweetie, I know that. I can’t fix it, though. I love you, ok? Just… stop being so leaky, I want dinner.”

Porthos snuffles and carts himself back to the sofa. If Aramis doesn’t want to cuddle, fine. He’s just snuggle with the sofa cushions. He blows his nose and melts into the sofa and lies, letting the fuzzy post-crying feeling fill him, dizzy and stuffed headed. Actually he feels like shit. He doesn’t bother watching the TV, it’s over anyway, just the music over the credits playing. It’s sort of soothing, not needing to watch it. He hears the doorbell goes and Aramis talking quietly, some laughter, and then the thunk of the door. Another thunk. A bump. Shoes coming off, and the door opening and closing again, and then Aramis coming back through to the livingroom. He sits beside Porthos, so Porthos makes a sad sound in the hopes of some snuggles. To his surprise, Aramis lies down on the tiny edge bit of the sofa, and wraps himself around Porthos, arm wriggling under, nose burying into Porthos’s neck.

“Hi,” Athos says.

Porthos yelps and tries to sit up, and accidentally knocks Athos off onto the floor, and tries to catch him, and falls after him, bringing the blanket he was half tangled in and some cushions with him, a cascade of tissues and fabric. He manages not to squash Athos, holding himself up on his arms, hands either side of Athos’s head. He stares down at Athos’s surprised, blinking, pink-eyed face.

“You look tired,” Porthos says. Stupidly.

“Yes, I just flew seven hours, then a taxi,” Athos says, yawning, stretching, getting comfy on the floor. Then he grins. “Hi. Like I said.”

“What- but… how are you here?” Porthos asks, sitting cross legged, jammed between the sofa and Athos. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, I got your messages in the taxi on the way here,” Athos says. “You can have all that, if you want. I brought you chocolates, anyway. Well, actually I just got a Toblerone from the airport. I needed change. Still,” Athos says. “I brought a card, I think it got squashed. I’m not very good at romance.”

His face crinkles up in consternation, and Porthos laughs, and finds himself on the brink of tears again. He covers his face, embarrassed, and Athos at once sits up and wraps himself around Porthos again, pulling his head against Athos’s shoulder, cradling him, rubbing over his back and shoulder. Porthos shudders when Athos’s hand encounters the fat under his binder, but Athos makes a little shushing noise and rubs over the binder instead. Porthos keeps his hands over his face, but rests against Athos.

“I knew you weren’t very happy. If you’d told me it was about valentines days, I’d have told you I was going to be here. I thought it would be a funny surprise, to turn up on valentines,” Athos says.

“Valentines was yesterday,” Porthos points out, sniffing, squeezing his eyes against the tears. “How are you here?! You live in Boston! It’s so far away.”

“I’m interviewing for a position at Oxford,” Athos says.

“But you already work at Harvard. Isn’t Harvard better for law?”

“I dunno. But see, the thing is, my boyfriend lives in London. Which he has just pointed out to me is really, really fucking far away,” Athos says.

“Your boyfriend?” Porthos asks. He’s tired, and he’s been crying on and off a lot recently, and they’re poly, and he’s confused. Athos snorts, and pats his head.

“You.”

“Yes. Me,” Porthos says, as if he’d meant that all along. “Athos, I am so confuzzled, baby.”

“I’d forgotten you talk like that in real life,” Athos says, sounding pleased about it.

“I don’t. I just talk to you on Hangouts more than anyone in the real world at the moment. No that sounds pathetic. I’m happy. Just… not right this second, yeah?” Porthos says, trying to be reassuring. He doesn’t want Athos to get the wrong end of the stick.

“I know. So, now that I’m here… I was hoping I could stay with you.”

“Obviously,” Porthos says. “When’s your interview? I went to uni at Oxford, we can prep you. This’ll be great. Oxford’s still not next door.”

“Compared to Boston it is. They’re the ones who offered me an interview,” Athos says. “I also have one in Sheffield. I’m only here for a week.”

“Not long. Long enough. Christ, it’s good to see you,” Porthos says, finally feeling it. Confusion and fear and exhaustion and tears give way to a warm excited bubbling feeling, and he laughs, finally returning Athos’s embrace. “Athos! You’re here!”

“I know,” Athos says, laughing again. “Hi.”

“Hello! Oh. Food. We need food. And, and, we can watch, um, we can watch TV, we can watch Morse and write fic. Or Lewis, I prefer Lewis. And- oh no.”

“What?”

“I’m teaching tomorrow!” Porthos wails, remembering.

“No you’re not, it’s half term,” Athos says. “Aramis got you Monday off next week, too. My Sheffield interview is on Tuesday, and Wednesday you have a half day so I’ll sleep in and then you can take me to the airport. Was valentines day really yesterday?”

“Yes, you plonker,” Porthos says. “You’re hopeless! I love it. You might be coming to live here? In the UK? For real?”

“For real. I have dual citizenship. And not maybe, definitely. I’m not teaching next year, in the States. And, as much as I love you, and Porthos? I do. I love you. But it’s not just that. My brother lives here, and I want to see if I can make up with him. It’s been ten years. There are lots of reasons for moving right now. Not the least of which is safety,” Athos says, darkly, tightening his hold on Porthos.

“You love me?” Porthos says, ignoring the rest.

“Obviously.”

“Yes, quite,” Porthos says. “Good. Food. Athos, I need food. And I need to watch Morse and snuggle with you. I really really could do with cuddling. And I wish I was working tomorrow, so I could tell the kids all about you coming to live here. Fuck. Wow. No, you know what? Let’s get a pizza, takeout, and just… sofa. Snuggling.”

“That sounds wonderful,” Athos says.


End file.
